Lockwood & Co: Short Stories
by Nemaides
Summary: Current Story: (AU), titled Golden Eyes. In a world where magic is banned and trust is almost nonexistent, Lucy and her cousin George meet a stranger that will, ultimately, change their fates forever.
1. Quill Kipps

**A/N: this fan fiction piece will be where I store most of my one shots/ short stories. It's not a long shot, although some of the stories will be multi-chaptered. **

**Quill Kipps**

I used to be friends with Anthony Lockwood.

We lived on the same street but attended different schools. I'd drag my feet and walk to a private school a few blocks away. Anthony would board the large bus to rattle down to a large public school twice the distance. Then, when it became dark, the watch bus would come tootling along, and I'd spend long hours standing aimlessly on the sidewalk, watch-stick in hand, feeling the night close in. Sometimes agents, real agents, would pass by my station and jeer; sometimes they'd just walk past without a glance, eyes fixed firmly on their destination, rapiers swinging flashily at their sides.

How I wanted a rapier of my own. Sometimes I even dreamed about it.

I just needed to wait until I was eight.

It was a bright summer day when I finally ventured outside. An hour or so passed; hula-hoops, footballs, and bits of mud and sand lay scattered across the yard.

"What're you doing?"

I let the stubble of chalk roll out of my hand and gaped upward. There was a boy standing across from me, watching with curious brown eyes. He was around the same six years of age that I was.

"Were you spying on me?" I asked.

The boy jammed his hands into his pockets and shrugged. "Not _spying . . . _I was _looking._ If I'd wanted to spy, I'd have hidden in that bush over there." He pointed across the yard at an overgrown rhododendron.

"I don't think that's a bush," I said dubiously.

"Isn't it? I dunno. Anyway, I live a few houses down," the boy said, "and I saw you. I've never seen you before, except for when you're in the house, and you're face is plastered up against the window, watching us play football . . . so I wanted to say hello."

I flushed. "Oh."

"So, hello." All of a sudden he was squatting beside me, hand poised questioningly over the chalk box. I shrugged, trying not to act as if I cared that much.

Hopefully he'd go away soon.

He didn't.

"I'm Anthony, by the way," the boy said a few minutes later. He'd already made a rough sketch of a dragon. "What 'bout you?"

"Quill."

"Quill like on a _porcupine_?" Anthony asked in amusement. "That's very—"

"Don't."

"Sorry." He had stopped drawing and was instead watching me make the rough outline of a ghost. "Are you one of the watch-kids?"

I stopped drawing. "Yeah."

"Ever seen a ghost?"

"Um . . . no. It's quiet where I'm stationed."

"Well, then." Anthony prodded the ghost with his forefinger. "Ghosts don't really look like that. They're not white sheets. They look like real people, only . . . trans—transportation? No, transparent. See-through," he clarified to my bewildered expression.

I scuffed out the drawing, cheeks red. "You've seen one before, then? A Visitor."

"Yeah," Anthony replied nonchalantly. "My mother works as a Fittes agent, and she lets me hang around the office a lot. She tells me things." He gave me a pointed look, as if the things he were told were top secret, and it was quite generous of him to even tell me that much.

I paused, lifted my chin. "Good for her. I want to be in Fittes one day."

"Okay." Anthony suddenly leaned in. "Hey, then, do you want to see a ghost? Your first one? A real one?"

"Er . . . see one?" I stammered. "Now?" _  
_

Already, things were going way too fast.

"Yes." This boy, a stranger I hardly knew, pushed me gently to the door. "Ask your mum and dad if you can come over to my house tonight, and I'll show you." Our feet crunched on the trimmed lawn.

I darted a glance up at my house. "My parents aren't home," I said truthfully. "They're out on a trip."

"Are you by yourself?" Anthony asked disbelievingly. "You're only . . . what . . . five? Or possibly a smart, vocabulary-wise four-year-old?"

"What! I'm not _four . . . _I'm six. At least as old as you," I said with a glare. "Maybe older."

"I'm seven," the boy said in exasperation. "You said you're six, Quill? _I'm_ older." He said it with a degree of satisfaction, as if it made him better than me or something. I scowled, and then reconsidered.

"But . . ." I waved my hand to indicate his height; Anthony was shorter than me by a good inch, and I wasn't exactly the tallest child in my class. "You're, you know . . ."

"Short?" Anthony said. He scuffed a toe, looked anywhere but my face (which he had to crane his neck to look up to, I thought with some satisfaction). "My parents say I still have time to grow."

I smirked without thinking. "Better grow soon, then."

Anthony didn't look hurt, though; he merely shrugged and stared at the door. "It helps that I'm smallish sometimes. You can get into any tight spaces. Plus, you excel at hide-and-seek." He pushed the front door open a litter wider. "Is there anyone home?"

"My nanny. She's probably asleep, though." I noticed Anthony's interested look as he glanced at the crack again. I moved my foot, and the door shut quietly. "She might get in trouble if she lets me see ghosts, though," I said. "So maybe we shouldn't go tonight. Or ever. My parents are strict."

_Or maybe it's just because I'm scared. _Something churned in my gut. _Cowardly Quill. _

_Shut up._

_Cowardly Quill!_

_Shush!_

"When we're both agents, then," Anthony was saying in agreement. He patted my shoulder conspiratorially. "We'll be the best, Quill. Just you wait and see."

**~0o0oo0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o~**

** Five years later**

"It's a stupid move, and you know it."

Mo Tanner, a retired agent with a beastly tan that lived up to his surname, scowled from the block of cement he was reclining on. "Who's supervisor, _Lockwood_, me or you?" He pretended to think for a moment. Then he leaned forward, brown teeth bared fiercely, and snarled, "_Me." _

"Well. That still doesn't mean it's the smartest thing to do." Anthony Lockwood didn't back down. He'd grown since we'd first met, and could now easily look any boy (or adult, like Tanner) in the eye.

From my place beside the sewer hole, I grimly watched the fight take place.

"We're sending Melinda and Wonseo in there by _themselves._ While we wait out here. That's the plan?" Anthony said. "It's idiotic." He turned to me for support.

Like _hell_ he was going to get any. It was his fault all this was going on in the first place, wasn't it? Because in our previous case . . .

"What Tanner says goes," I finally pointed out, narrow-eyed. "You trying to challenge him, Anthony?"

Anthony stuck his chin out. "So you agree with him? Or me?"

Tanner leered at me; a future of cold showers, floor scrubbings, and around-the-corner ambushes were hinted at.

I coughed uncomfortably and held up my hands. "Hey, now . . . "

"It doesn't matter what the boy says. Melinda's our most veteran agent, and Wonseo is perfectly capable." Tanner turned away, as if the argument was now settled. But Lockwood wasn't done.

As the bickering continued, I slumped further against the brick wall and looked to the side. Melinda and Wonseo, the agents in debate, were at the edge of the sewer-hole. They glanced at Lockwood, then at me, faces flickering with hesitation. The ghost-fog trickling from the hole lapped at their ankles. Wonseo swallowed hard; I watched his Adam's apple go up and down, and Melinda turned to whisper something in his ear.

"That's it! I'm taking this to the head. You're blatantly disobeying orders, Anthony." Tanner's face twisted into a gruesome grin. "It'll be nice to see you on the bus home. Who'll be there to send you off? Quill?"

"I'm sorry," Anthony Lockwood snarled back, "but I don't see w_hat_ orders I'm disobeying."

"Oh, what the heck . . ." Eyes burning, Mo Tanner whirled on Melinda, who was the nearest to him. He pointed at the sewer hole. "Go! What're you waiting for?"

"You don't have to go," Lockwood offered quietly, trying one last time. There was resignation in his voice.

As expected, Melinda just shook her head. "We'll be fine," she said.

With one last look at Mo, she disappeared into the gloom with her brother. Hopefully they'd make it back out.

"You and Kipps over there completely fumbled our last case. This is your, let's say, _punishment." _Tanner turned back to Anthony and raised his thick eyebrows.

"All I did was trip! We made it out fine!" Anthony snarled, but you could see that the barb had got to him.

Our last case . . . we'd had the ghost, ready to trap it with the silver net; the night was drawing to its most dangerous peak. It was supposed to be a quick in-and-out thing, done in a jiffy with a simple Cold Maiden. Then Anthony had stumbled, tripped over his own heels, and bowled into me, sending me crashing down a flight of stairs. Wonseo had been at the bottom, warding off a cluster of Shades, and I knocked him neatly into a crowd of them; thankfully, his rapier had sent them scattering soon before, so we had time to chuck some salt-bombs at the Visitors before hot-footing it back upstairs. Back at the top, the Cold Maiden had rushed at Melinda while we were in disorder. She'd swung her rapier, sent it flying off at Tanner, who'd bellowed and been saved just in time by her Greek Fire.

All that chaos . . . Tanner had been severely shaken afterwards. Anthony had nearly been thrown off by the team. Wonseo still limped slightly now, and Melinda was practicing her swordplay every night, doubting herself, pushing herself to the extremes.

And now, on our next case . . .

"So we just wait here." Anthony threw me a look. I straightened my posture on the brick wall. Another look, and I reluctantly peeled myself away and stood beside him. Couldn't he see that I didn't want to be included in this argument? Bloody Anthony Lockwood.

"They'll be back soon enough," I said, not meeting either of their eyes. "We can go in if they need help." Lockwood snorted disbelievingly.

A minute ticked by, and I swatted at the bugs that landed on my arm. The sun had long since gone down, and we were standing by the light of the moon in a tall grassy field beside a sewer. Not the best of locations, especially considering the smell, but at least . . . I frowned up at the sky. At least there wasn't much action going on.

_Still a coward, then? _That familiar voice snickered.

_Always have been, _I agreed.

_Look, Quilly, if you keep siding with your Lockwood like this, you could easily get kicked off with him when Tanner finally blows. Tell me, do you want that? _

I didn't.

And then, as I bent to retie my shoelace . . . that's when the screams started.

0o0o0o0o0o0o

**Two weeks later**

"I haven't seen you around here for a while, Quill," Anthony's mother said reprovingly. Seated on Lockwood's front porch, I accepted the glass of iced tea she held out with a muttered "thanks."

"We've been busy," Anthony said, but he was grinning as he nudged me in the side. "Or . . . maybe not for a while now, eh, Quill? We can do what we want, now . . . _finally_ . . ."

"Fittes isn't that bad." His mother passed Anthony his iced tea. "So, now that you've left the agency . . . what's going on?" She sat down on the porch swing, crossing her legs. I swallowed a gulp of iced tea and darted a look at Anthony; he was pulling at a blade of grass.

"I don't know. It was about time I left Tanner and everything behind, though . . . after Melinda and Wonseo died . . . and that case, the near-accident that Tanner blamed me for . . . though I suppose it _was _sort of my fault . . . " Lockwood shrugged. "I still want to be an agent, though. That dream hasn't died."

"A.J Lockwood and Company, isn't it?"

Anthony stayed cool and fiddled with the blade of grass. "Maybe, yeah."

"Your very own agency. Well, Tony, you'd better find agents quick." His mother propped her feet up on a cushion and watched the clouds; I poked at a passing ant, feeling my neck prickle at what Anthony said next.

"I've already got Quill here. Who else would I need?"

"You can have a two-man agency. What about that George boy?" Anthony's mother straightened and set her drink down with a small 'clink.' "He's brilliant, too. Told me all about the history of the Problem without a pause. And then chided me afterward for not knowing it as an agent," she added dryly.

"That's George," Lockwood agreed.

"George? Who's he?" I asked.

"He applied to Fittes a few days ago. Mum was his examiner. Did he get in?" Anthony asked his mother.

"Of course he did, but I'm drawing out the wait to keep him on his toes." Ms. Lockwood directed her sharp gaze on me. "How do you feel about joining a new agency, Quill? Is it exciting?"

I flushed. Anthony's stare joined his mother's, and I felt a bead of sweat drop down my neck. Then I relented. No more secrets. "I . . . I didn't resign, Anthony," I admitted helplessly. "I'm still with Fittes."

"Not even after Melinda and Wonseo?" Anthony's expression didn't change; it was if he had expected this. Perfect Anthony Lockwood had expected no more from his cowardly sidekick, and for that . . . my hand itched to punch him. See if he'd be that smug with his nose caved in . . . but no. He was my friend, and besides, I'd probably end up breaking a knuckle while he and his fine bony nose got away unscathed. I held in a sigh.

"Not even."

"I'll leave this to you two boys," Anthony's mother said suddenly. "Tony, make sure to bring in the glasses." She swept off of the porch swing and vanished into the house without another word.

"Tanner got Melinda and Wonseo killed, Quill."

"We messed up that other case and nearly got them killed even before. Everyone makes mistakes."

"Melinda and Wonseo didn't die because of a _mistake!_"Anthony slammed his iced tea onto the wooden porch; the ice rattled against the sides. "If we'd gone in with them, they wouldn't have died! There were _four _Type Twos in there, Quill. Four. If we'd been there, we could have had one agent per ghost, plus one more. We would have made it unscathed. But because Tanner was too _cowardly"—_I winced at the word—"people died. I can't be on a team with a person like that. Not with a bloody selfish coward. People like that . . . they're disgusting."

My heart was pounding as I muttered: "Then I guess you wouldn't want me in your precious agency, anyway."

Anthony stared at me. "Quill?"

"See you around, _Tony." _I got up and left, leaving Anthony gazing after me, stunned.

Things were never the same after that.

**0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o**

**A/N: N****ow you know why Quill Kipps calls Lockwood "Tony." It was at first a mockery of his mother's nickname for him, and later on a hurtful reminder of his mother's death. Of course, this is just the start of how their friendship starts to take a turn . . .**

**History is influenced (and also Quill's age, for clarification). These events are not correct; they technically never happened in the books. **

**All rights go to Jonathan Stroud. **


	2. The Death of Parents

"Hey, Lockwood." George stopped on the sidewalk and watched Anthony Lockwood stretch on his toes, trying in vain to paste a sheet of paper on a poster board. "What are you . . . oooh, _almost_ got it there . . . just a _little _higher . . ."

Lockwood gave a large jump and heroically smacked the paper right on the board. "There!"

"Good job. Excellent jumping skills."

Lockwood turned around and clapped the other boy on the shoulder. "What are you doing out here?"

"Taking a walk, and getting doughnuts. Kipps is throwing things again. I needed to get out." George pushed his glasses up his nose and watched Lockwood eye his own form appreciatively, looking at it from one angle and then another.

"Doughnuts? From where?"

"Arif's bakery." George craned his neck to the side and looked over Lockwood's shoulder at the paper behind him. "Looking for a partner operative, huh?"

"I can't exactly have a one-man agency," Lockwood replied, without even a hint of a blush on his cheeks. "If you see anyone that's interested, let me know." Then he strolled off again, that long coat flapping at his calves.

George would have forgotten the whole encounter entirely if he hadn't picked up the _hint _in Lockwood's voice. Or maybe he, George, was just hoping for one.

After all, life in the Fittes agency wasn't exactly rainbows and butterflies.

But was any agency, anyway?

**~0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o00o~**

**Two weeks later**

George walked into his branch of the Fittes office one Monday morning to find it in a raucous. Papers flying every which way, agents rushing to-and-fro, and in the midst of it all was Quill Kipps, draped over his armchair and talking loudly. Bewildered but unwilling to show it, George halted a young agent in her path. "What's—"

"Sorry, can't stop, gotta go!" she cried, the packets in her arms bumping up and down as she ran. George, feeling more irritable, turned around and stopped someone he knew.

"Sibley—"

"Not now, George," the agent said in a rush. "I've got to get this report to the media—" And with that, he was gone.

"Oh, come over here, George," a familiar voice drawled. "You're looking so befuddled that I almost pity you."

George stalked over.

"Aren't we supposed to be sending out the teams? What's going on?" he demanded brusquely. Quill Kipps looked up at him lazily and sneered, waving away a hovering assistant.

"Haven't you heard, George-O? We lost two Fittes agents last night. The paperwork we have to do now is _astounding._" He gestured at the sheets stacked up on his desk.

"I didn't hear." He stared. "Who were they?"

"Some of our best," the leader sighed dramatically, slumping further in his chair. "Natalie and Robert Lockwood." He closed his eyes and then they shot open again, glaring at George, who was gaping at him. "Well? Don't you have something to do? Here, take some of these papers . . . I'm sure you can forge my signature . . ."

There was something rushing in his ears; George pulled off his glasses and rubbed them against his sweater, a habit he'd never managed to shake off. Did Anthony Lockwood know? If he did, how was he coping?

George had a sudden vision of the poster board he'd passed by this morning, Lockwood's application forms washed-out and empty. Unwanted. Nobody had signed up at all.

There was no one, absolutely no one, for Lockwood.

Another vision: Lockwood's beaming smile wiped out forever, a marvelous sight gone from the world. It was almost too much to bear . . . and then, as he placed his glasses back on his nose, it _was. _

"Forget the bloody paperwork," George snapped. He turned on his heel and rushed back into the early morning fog.

There was, after all, a friend he needed to find, and a certain company he found himself eager to join.

**0o0o0o0o0o0o**

**A/N: I changed history again. **


	3. Golden Eyes Part 1

**Summary: (AU). In a world where technology and the older times mix, Lucy and her cousin George meet a stranger that will, ultimately, change their fates forever. **

**Note: This AU's England still has a king and queen. Also, the UK hasn't formed yet, although this is in the early 2000s. **

**0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o**

As London's oldest inn, The Blackbird was relatively (no, make that _surprisingly_) clean. The floors were swept, the steps leading to the rooms were labeled as thus, and the water that gushed out of rusting faucets was a clear blue rather than brown. Best of all, their food was said to be quite something. So as I sat at a table examining the map, illuminated only by a single swinging light bulb, my chubbier companion 'oohed' and 'aahed' over their menu.

"It takes maybe two weeks to get to Glasgow. Depends on how much Bert can take." I looked up from the map to see George rolling up tiny bread balls, seemingly bored as he scanned the crowded room. "George. Are you listening?"

"Yep."

"Good, because this is important."

George sniffed, seemingly unperturbed. "I did all that before we left _town._ You're just telling me what I already know . . . Oh, the stew!" Two bowls of beef stew were set down in front of us, hot and steaming. George picked up his spoon and then paused. "You won't be needing that map anyway. I've got the route memorized."

"Figures." I fiddled with my spoon, feeling uncomfortably warm and slightly nervous. Ahead of me, I had a supposed weeks-long journey to Glasgow, to start my schooling under the head of the best surgeon in both Scotland _and _England, and worst of all I had _George _along with me. At least the mule and I got along well. Speaking of the mule . . .

"George, did you feed Bert?"

The boy lifted his face away from the bowl and blinked his beady eyes at me, a piece of potato stuck to his lip. He seemed to mull it over as I stared, and then he finally said with a shrug: "Guess I forgot."

I glowered at him, this boy with his soup-stained clothing and drooping socks, coarse straw hair and _unbelievable _attitude—and coming from me, that was really something—and wondered again how I had gotten stuck with this boy, even though he was my mother's friend's son. On the way down here, he'd been complaining the whole way about how he'd been forced to leave his books behind. He was going with me to Scotland to study a bloody _lake monster. _Who'd need a book for that?

"If you keep on glaring like that, your eyes might get stuck that way," George commented idly. He scraped at the last of his soup and sucked thoughtfully on his spoon.

"George! You _didn't bother to feed our method of transportation?"_

"I thought I already said I didn't."

"I told you to!"

"And?"

I shoved back my chair and threw my spoon down on the table. "I'm going to check up on Bert, since _someone _was unreliable."

"It's raining out," George said, his bored expression unchanged. "You'll need your coat."

"I know." I strode away from the table. "Watch my things."

It was a relief to burst out of the steamy inn and out into the cool spring air. It was raining lightly, and it smelled like wet earth and blue sky. The wind slapped lightly against my face as I moved to the stables. Mud stuck the soles of my shoes to the ground, and each footstep brought a wet sticking sound.

Bert was in the very last stall, our small cart chained to a rack beside him. He gave his hoarse nicker, stretching out a thin neck to give me a death stare, one hoof shifting to stamp against the cold stone floor. _  
_

I clambered onto a stool and hefted an armful of straw into his bin. "_George _was supposed to do this. Don't you blame me."

A roll of the eyes and then Bert was attacking the straw, soft lips gently closing over the strands. A glance around the stall showed me that his water trough was empty as well; muttering under my breath, I filled a bucket with hose water and poured that in.

"That better?" I closed the stall door. My eye caught a brief movement in my peripheral vision; someone had darted swiftly through the stable doors. I turned my head slightly.

Was there someone else in here? If so, why the reason for secrecy?

The back of my neck prickled.

The stables were silent; I could almost think that I was alone. However, my hearing was keener than most (one of my sisters had jokingly called it my Talent with a capital T) and I caught the sound of rustling straw in the opposite corner. I didn't hesitate for a moment before darting off to investigate.

A black cloak, swirling fabric, a face covered by a large hood; we walked into each other at the same time and let out guttural screams of surprise. I fell backwards against the wall, the other person tumbled into the pile of straw, arms flying out, and our gasps of pain equaled in volume as the sound echoed throughout the stable. The person's hood fell back, revealing sharp features and a brief flash of gold, before the fabric was pulled back over his head.

I dragged myself to my feet. "Oh! I'm sorry for the surprise."

"No need to be sorry." His voice was definitely male. "It was my fault, too."

"Where were you going with that straw?" I darted a look at my watch. I'd been out for nearly twenty minutes. George was probably seated alone at our table, tearing off pieces of bread and wondering what was taking me so long. Served him right for leaving Bert in a state of starvation and dehydration.

"You ever spent a night at an inn?" he asked. "The pillows are terrible. If you stuff them with _this"-_here he shook the straw at me with emphasis-"it's not so bad."

Had I really seen what I had? If so . . .

In the back of the stables, Bert gave his hoarse nicker; I clicked my tongue absently at him, and he fell silent. "You staying at The Blackbird?" I asked.

"Yes. See you there, maybe?" He didn't wait for an answer, just picked his way elegantly towards the inn, rain pelting the cloak and running sleekly down the black fabric.

He hadn't bothered to wait for an answer, so I didn't give him one. Instead, I turned around, grabbed my coat, and sloshed my way after him.

George was looking plenty irritated by the time I reached our table. "I've paid the bill."

I was already scanning the tabletop, brow furrowed. "My stew."

"It's missing, is it?" George snorted and slapped his hand down. "You took so long that I had it packaged. Thought maybe you were off traipsing through little muddy streams, building stick tepees—"

"I wasn't playing in the rain," I replied heatedly. I slid into my seat and fought the urge to look over my shoulder; the young man from the stables was at the table behind us, hood still on. Apparently this resisting took a while, because when I glanced back at George, he had an eyebrow raised. It was then that I realized that I had lapsed into silence for a few blank seconds. " . . . I was feeding Bert."

"Feeding the mule."

"Yes. Which was supposed to be _your—"_

"Why are you so interested in the person behind you?" the plump boy asked pointedly, spinning his fork by its tines. When I didn't answer, he sighed. "Please. Did you think I hadn't noticed? You were darting looks every five seconds, or at least trying _not _to . . . I'm not an idiot."

"Well, sometimes it seems hard to remember that." I muttered under my breath. A loud crashing sound came from the kitchen, making both of us jump; the fork in George's hand spun out onto the floor, clattering across the stones. Yelling ensued, and while everyone's attention was focused on the kitchen, I leaned forward across the table. George did as well.

"In the stables," I whispered, "His hood fell off for a moment. His eyes . . . they were gold."

We both sat back nonchalantly and scanned the room with keen eyes. The other travelers and locals alike were still watching the kitchen scene unfold; the head cook was now chasing a serving boy around with his spatula, bellowing at the tops of his lungs while the shattered pieces of good china (for VIPs, it was presumed) were swept up.

George looked back at me. "You're sure? Gold?"

"As sure as you are that the Loch Ness Monster really exists." I shifted in my seat. "I mean . . . it was only for a moment, but I saw."

"You know what that means."

"Of course I do."

"You better not mess this up. What, exactly, did you say to him?"

"Nothing _serious. _Just pleasantries."

"I know you, Lucy. Sometimes I believe you'd really try to help a—" George's eyes wandered casually around the room (he really was quite the actor, when the time came). Then his gaze snapped back to me. "Anyway, do you get what I'm saying?"

"Yes," I said. "Don't worry. Trust me, George."

He leaned back in his chair, eyeing me doubtfully, brushing at a few crumbs that littered his shirt like dandruff. Then he shrugged and placed a few coins on the table for our serving girl. "It's interesting, you know . . . why _London?"_

"Of all places in England," I agreed. We both gave each other similar looks of distant regret, and then headed off to find our rooms.

Or, at least, that was where we were going when The Blackbird burped three more wind-chilled people into the steamy room. I had a foot on the first step, George already huffing and puffing his way up ahead, when the sudden draft of cold across my skin made me pause. I looked around. I looked at the door. And then I froze.

Three Wolves stood in the doorway, gray uniforms glistening with rain, their dark caps pulled off politely to reveal scruffy wet hair underneath. One of them was a woman, slightly shorter than her fellows, and from the way the other two Wolves moved around her it seemed that she was in charge. I glanced from their faces to their belts, at the ropes and the guns and the occasional sabre or nightstick that hung there, and felt suddenly sick.

"_Lucy._ Lucy!" George called to me in urgent whispers. I ignored him and stayed stock-still, letting my gaze drift across the room to the familiar hooded figure at his table.

He seemed completely relaxed, one hand curled around a cup of tea, the other flicking through a battered local newspaper, but going by his whitened knuckles and the way that he hardly moved at all, he knew who the new people were. As did I. The Wolves were renowned as the nation's witch hunters (well, witches in general; other magic users also applied, like shifters, sirens, and the occasional wizard, although there were hardly any of those). Although the magic folk tended to blend in with normal human society, it made the Wolves' job a whole lot easier that magic users' eyes were . . . _gold._

Golden eyes.

The Wolves strolled leisurely to an empty table. It was one right next to the hooded man's.

I tensed, and darted a look up at George. He was staring out at the busy crowd, hands gripping the railing. As I watched, he parted his coat and reached slowly for his rapier.

"George?"

"They're going to take him, Lucy," George said lowly. "After _all _we've done . . ." His hand closed around the hilt of his sword.

"Let's not fight it out with them," I decided. "Donovan would kill us."

"Then what?"

"Watch."

The Wolves sat down with many a screeching of chair legs, leaning casually in their places and casting cool glances over the room. The hooded man cleared his throat suddenly and waved the serving boy over; he shook out a few coins and then stood up abruptly, fingers running quickly over the rim of his hood.

"You there," a Wolf barked. It was the woman. She waved a hand in the air, smiling calmly; nothing seemed amiss. The other diners, having tensed at the sharp voice, relaxed and returned to their own meals and conversations. I, still hesitating at the stairway, took a step forward and stopped beside a potted plant.

The woman beckoned the hooded man over. "I'm Emma Doyle, leader of my Wolf squad. These dashing young men over here are some pups. I'm giving them a brief rundown on how things work in our group."

You could practically see the hooded man twitching where he stood. I clenched my jaw tightly.

"Please remove your hood," the woman said.

I didn't bother glancing back at George. I just crossed the room in quick strides, heart in my head, as the hooded man stood frozen in the center of the room.

"I'm sorry, what did you say?" the young man asked at last.

"I asked you to remove your hood. It's the standard security check, to look at the eyes," Emma Doyle said crisply. "Follow up, please."

"I—"

The whole room was back to watching now; after this, The Blackbird would have quite the reputation for drama. Even the cook was staring, his potatoes burning in the pan.

"He's my brother," I blurted, running forward the last few steps. Behind me, George groaned massively. I flung an arm around the young man, fingers bunching in the wet fabric of his cloak. "What do you want?"

"Your brother?" the Wolf said incredulously. She shook her head. "Well, then kindly ask him to—"

"He has a skin condition."

"It's terrible." George appeared at my side. "All rotting and green with oozing sores."

"We're taking him to the Surgeon's University in Scotland. They can do all sorts of skin grafting there," I explained dramatically. "But it's pretty contagious now, so you'll want to stay a few tables away."

"I was just heading up to the room, actually," the young man ended. "My face was feeling itchy."

The Wolf sat back down. A suspicious look crossed her face before fading away. "A facial condition?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"You should know better than to eat in a public area. Stay away from other people," she said briskly. "And get to that surgeon as fast as you can."

"Yes, ma'am." The young man followed us up the stairs and onto the second floor, where we grouped in the hallway and let out a collective sigh of relief.

George immediately set onto me. "What were you _thinking?"_

"I wasn't," I admitted.

"As usual."

I slid the room key into the slot, opened the door, and we stepped inside. George locked it firmly behind us.

"You owe us one," I said, slumping into a puffy chair, coat and all. George did likewise, but in a different chair. The hooded young man remained standing. "One wrong move and our heads wouldn't be attached anymore."

"I thought it's usually hanging," George said thoughtfully. "That or burning at the stake."

"So you know, then?" the young man asked resignedly. He sat down on the edge of a bed. "It was rather clever, thinking up that disease on the spot."

George and I looked at each other. Then we nodded. We knew.

"Wouldn't it be funny if we were on to completely different things?" I said half-heartedly, propping my feet up on the side table. I was tired. It had been a long day of clattering around in a wooden cart, and now this. The bed was looking plenty comfortable now, all sheets and plush pillows . . .

Hands flew up, and then the young man was pushing back his hood. "On to different things? I don't think we are."

I thought I'd been prepared for it, but the sight still caught me off guard. Those golden eyes, bright and gleaming.

"We should be formally introduced." He held out a hand, and I focused long enough to shake it. The young man grinned, so bright it nearly lit up the whole room. "I'm Anthony Lockwood, part-time warlock, part-time fugitive on the run. You are?"


End file.
